


A Witcher and a Bard Walk Into a Tavern

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Ficlets, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Self-Inflicted Wounds, Whump, bed sharing, everyone gets hurt, prompts, truth potion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: An anthology of canon-compliant(ish) Geraskier ficlets. In the latest story, Jaskier accidentally slaps Geralt during an angry rant.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 123
Kudos: 315





	1. Never Stop Smiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets hurt at a festival. Inspired by the prompt "Please never stop smiling". Rated T/M for canon-typical violence/gore - contains angst, whump, major character injury.

The ashy smell of the Belleteyn bonfires marred the unusually brisk Spring wind. It was the smell of heat and the changing season, picked out with mistletoe and hornwort - herbs thrown onto the flames to bless those leaping across them with love and fertility. 

Beyond the dark clearing, Geralt could hear the continuing revelries, mixed voices harmonising with pipes and flutes, undercut with the throbbing beat of drums. The celebrations were mere yards away, just beyond a little thicket of trees, but the music sounded dulled - as if his head were underwater.

He could still taste the mead on his tongue, honey-sweet and sickly. The sharp smell of the daffodil, tucked behind his ear by Jaskier not even twenty minutes ago, tickled at his nose, mingling with the smoke.

And above all of that - the scents coalescing in the back of his throat - the hot and rusty smell of blood. 

His silver sword lay stained at his side, the black blood seeping into the fresh spring grass, staining the delicate white petals of the bed of daisies he found himself leaning in. Just beyond, broken and twisted beneath the trees, lay the body of the leshen. It had been drawn out by the party, drawn towards the squealing voices of the two young lovers who’d fled the clearing as soon as Geralt had arrived. Now it lay, unmoving, it’s skull-like head already rotting in the leaf litter.

But Geralt didn’t care about the leshen - about the hefty price on it’s horns. He didn’t care about the long-gone lovers.

There was blood on his hands. Blood on his chest, on his face, on the grass beneath him. But it wasn’t the acrid blood of a relict. 

Beneath his frantic hands, Jaskier gasped, his head lolling against the trunk of the oak tree against which he’d been thrown. His bright doublet, stitched in gold, was stained with growing patches of red. His hands scrambled for Geralt’s, slipping from his wrists, unable to gain purchase on his blood-stained gauntlets. There were three long gashes across his chest, ripping apart his clothes, seeping with blood.

He was still wearing a daffodil behind his ear - the only thing not splashed with blood.

“…Gerlat,” he choked, a rivulet of blood creeping from the corner of his mouth, “Geralt, I…”

“No, don’t talk. You need to-”

“Geralt.” He finally managed to grab at his hand, his skin warm and wet. “I…” he took a shuddering breath, and then his face broke into a smile. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Jaskier’s eyes, somehow still bright and shining, darted around the clearing.

“We should go back to the feast.”

“You’re hurt, Jaskier.”

His chest rose and fell beneath Geralt’s hands, his heartbeat fast and erratic. Geralt tugged at his silk shirt, trying to get a better look at the wounds. If they were clean enough, it would be a simple heal, just stitches, just salves…

“You never want to go to the festival with me.”

“Jaskier, we need to get you to a healer. You’re hurt.”

“Excuses…” Jaskier’s head lolled back once more, his eyes sliding shut. For a brief moment, Geralt felt panic rising in his throat - but the silence was suddenly broken by a particularly raucous laugh from beyond the trees, the music growing louder. 

Jaskier’s eyes snapped back open. “Belleteyn, Geralt! I can’t believe I forgot…” 

Geralt sighed, desperate, and ripped at the already ruined fabric of Jaskier’s shirt, pulling it aside and revealing the claw-marks beneath. Jaskier wriggled beneath his grip.

“Oh, Geralt,” He looked up - Jaskier’s eyes were shining, his bloodied bottom lip gripped beneath his teeth, “This is so sudden.” He winked, as much as he even could wink. “Have you decided to celebrate Belleteyn with me?”

Geralt’s mind raced. “Yes,” he said, finally, “yes, that’s it, Jaskier. We’re celebrating Belleteyn. Do you hear the music?”

Jaskier leant his head against the tree. From beyond the clearing, the piping music trilled and sang. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, smiling. “I can smell the bonfires.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Geralt reached for his pack, spilling the contents onto the ground and picking through it, looking for a potion or salve. His slippery fingers gripped around a poppymilk tincture. “We’re at a Belleteyn feast, Jaskier.”

“How wonderful,” Jaskier sighed, and the breeze ruffled his hair.

Geralt pulled the cork from the tincture and held it to Jaskier’s unresisting lips. “Here, Jaskier,” he said, gently, “Mead, just for you. Have a sip.”

Jaskier drank as much as Geralt deemed safe. He pulled the little bottle away, the lip stained pink with mingled poppymilk and blood. Jaskier sighed.

“What a wonderful evening,” he said, his eyes unfocused. Geralt pressed his hand to the side of his face, peering at him, trying to gauge the effect of the tincture.

“A wonderful evening indeed,” he said, willing his voice to stay calm, “I’ve had a…” he swallowed, heavily, “a wonderful night, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiled. “Good. I’m glad. We should go dancing, Geralt. Let’s go dancing.”

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart slowing, the beating growing more laboured. But despite that, the bard was still smiling, showing off his blood-stained teeth.

Geralt leant down and slipped one arm around Jaskier’s waist, the other beneath his limp legs. He pulled him up as Jaskier giggled.

“I promise we’ll go dancing, Jaskier.”

Geralt shifted him in his grip. There was a healer in the town - she’d be at the celebrations, of course, but for enough coin he was sure she could be convinced to leave the bonfire for just a few hours. Jaskier let his head loll back, staring up at Geralt. He laughed up at him, even though his eyes weren’t focusing on anything at all. Geralt needed him to stay conscious. If he slipped away, he’d never come back.

“Jaskier…”

“Hmm?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

Another giggle. “Anything for you.”

“I need you to…” he sighed, trying to block out the screaming in his head, the pressure in his chest. “Please never stop smiling.”


	2. What Were You Thinking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier take on a vampire. Inspired by the prompt “What the hell were you thinking?” “In all honesty, I’m not really sure.” Rated T for swears. Short n sweet - contains Jaskier being a badass, dead vampires and Geralt nearly-confessing.

Geralt stared down at the lifeless Alp lying on the floor of the hall and the slowly growing pool of blood seeping out from beneath her body.

He spun to glare at Jaskier. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

“In all honesty, I’m not really sure.” Jaskier knelt down to get a closer look at the dead vampire. He reached out, ready to poke the corpse, when Geralt gave him a swift kick in the shin.

“You could have been killed,” he spat, furiously.

Jaskier rose again and waved his blood-stained silver dagger beneath Geralt’s nose. “But I _wasn’t_ ,” he said, smugly. “In fact…” he took a step closer, eyebrows raised, “I think I just saved your life.”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier’s expression broke into feigned outrage. “Oh, _excuse me_ for saving the day, for once! Can’t handle someone else getting all the glory, _hmm_? Maybe _you’ll_ have to write a song for _me_ , now.”

“ _Jaskier_ …” A low growl, a warning: but Jaskier blithered on, undeterred.

“I can’t say I’m sold on your singing voice, of course, but we can say it’s ironic. The shitty bard singing a ballad for the shitty fighter. The taverns will love it.”

“Jaskier!”

“Although I suppose I _did_ just kill a vampire while the famous White Wolf had his back turned, so maybe that makes me a rather exceptional fighter? Maybe I’ll take up monster hunting and shrug off the life of a bard. Too long has fame dogged my every footste-”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the forearm and pulled him towards him till they were nose-to-nose. The bard stumbled over his own feet, crashing into Geralt’s chest and dropping the dagger to the stone floor with a clatter.

“Oh, I, ah-” Jaskier’s face flushed scarlet, his ears burning. “Geralt, I-”

“Don’t do that again.”

“Geralt, _really_ -”

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s voice was low - scarcely more than a whisper. “I’ll only say this once. I’ll not risk losing you. So do not. Do that. Again.”

Jaskier swallowed. He stared into Geralt’s huge yellow eyes, his blown-out pupils. His heart was thundering in his ears - even more so than when he’d plunged the dagger into the back of the Alp.

“Right,” he said, quietly. “Got it.”


	3. You're a Terrible Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a nasty fight with a griffin Geralt is on the warpath, and won't stop for anything - or anyone. Inspired by the prompt “You are a terrible liar.” Rated T for swears and mild gore. Contains Geralt being a grump, whump, minor injuries.

“Geralt!” 

Geralt stomped through the forest towards the distant lights of the village, the griffin’s head gripped in one hand. Entrails dripped from the ragged, gaping wound where the neck had been severed, and Jaskier followed behind, skipping over the little pools of blood and muscle and bone.

“Geralt, you need to _stop.”_

Geralt continued to ignore him, picking up his pace. He pushed aside a low, thin branch and ducked beneath it, not waiting for Jaskier to follow.

He wasn’t going to stop. Not for the bard - not for anyone. He was vibrating still with pent-up energy, angry that the alderman had lied to him - _again_. Angry that this little trick was growing more popular amongst the towns he found work in: lying to him to downplay the severity of their problem to ensure he’d deal with it.

“Geralt!”

The bard could bleat all he wanted. He wasn’t stopping until he’d gotten back to the town, slammed the stinking head at the alderman’s feet and had an ale in his hand. He was steadfastly ignoring the ache in his side.

“Geralt, slow down! You’re wounded, I need to-”

“I’m _fine,”_ Geralt growled over his shoulder. “Leave off.”

He could hear Jaskier sighing as he crashed through the undergrowth, and sped up once more. In the dark, Jaskier couldn’t keep up with him.

He made it back to the town quickly, and relished the look of horror on the alderman’s face when he threw the griffin’s head onto the table in the middle of his game of Gwent. 

“My pay, if you’d be so kind,” he growled, not caring for the blood dripping from the table or the growing, burning pain in his ribs.

The alderman complied quickly. Geralt left his house poorer by one griffin’s head but richer by a rather substantial amount of coin. It was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. At least they hadn’t been stingy with his pay. 

He started to head towards the tavern when a stabbing pain shot through his chest and across his ribs. He stumbled - just for a moment - before righting himself with a sigh. He took a breath, forcing back the pain, and tried to carry on - but at the next step the pain returned and he suddenly felt himself falling to his knees.

“Geralt!”

Jaskier was suddenly at his side, throwing himself down onto the dirt road beside him. He grabbed his arm with one hand, steadying him, then reached for his side with the other. When he pulled it away, it was stained with blood.

“I’m fine,” muttered Geralt, uselessly.

Jaskier shook his head. “You’re a terrible liar, Geralt.” He said, fondly. “Stubborn bloody witcher. Come on.” 

He slid an arm beneath Geralt’s armpit and heaved him up. Geralt swayed a little.

“I want a pint.”

“You want _stitches_. Let’s get you back to the inn and I’ll sort this mess out. A fucking _griffin,_ Geralt? You thought I wouldn’t see it try to rip your guts out?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, wonderful. At least when you’re grunting at me I know you’re not lying.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“Sorry to tell you this, Geralt, but saying you’re fine when your _insides_ are very rapidly attempting to become your _outsides_ is textbook lying. I should know: it’s my job, after all.”

Geralt grunted at him again. Jaskier just sighed, rearranged his grip around his waist, and dragged him towards the inn.


	4. Not a Couple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt enjoy the Belleteyn festivities. A prequel to Chapter 1. Inspired by the prompt "You two make such a cute couple.” / “We’re not a couple.” Rated T for swears - contains drinking and fluff

Geralt leant against the make-shift bar and looked out across the town square. A team of women were beginning to prepare for the may-pole dance, untangling the ribbons and hanging bouquets. They were all wearing matching white gowns, the fabric so fine it was virtually transparent, all crowned with flowers and barefoot.

At the other end of the bar was a little gang of young men, all enraptured at the sight before them. One of them was slowly spilling his beer over his shoes as his mug hung limply from his hand. Geralt rolled his eyes, and turned away.

“Geralt!”

Something slammed into him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder as Jaskier flopped onto the bar, his face flushed, his hair standing on end around his head. In his hand he was holding a bunch of sad-looking daffodils.

“Here for the dance, Jaskier? You’re back just in time.”

Jaskier frowned at him. “The what? What’re you…” he turned around and finally caught sight of the may-pole. One of the women caught his eye and waved at him. “Oh, _that.”_ He said, dismissively, turning back to the bar, “Hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows at him.

“Honestly!” Jaskier protested, “Not my thing. Not tonight, anyway.” He grinned. “Where’s my mead?”

Geralt gestured with his head to the man working the bar, who’d been equally distracted by the dancing. “Otherwise engaged.”

“For _fuck’s…”_ Jaskier muttered, then yelled down the bar - “Hey! Hey, _excuse me!_ If we could get served _before_ next year’s celebration, thanks! _Anyway_ ,” Jaskier sighed, grinning a little lopsidedly, “I decided. You’re far too drab. Now I _know_ what you said about garlands, so…” he held up one of the daffodils. “May I?”

Geralt didn’t have time to respond before Jaskier was tucking the flower behind his ear. His fingers brushed against his skin, stroking his hair back, pressing into his scalp. It sent a little electric shudder down his spine. Jaskier’s fingers lingered on the side of Geralt’s head for just a fraction longer than they needed to.

“There,” he said, smiling softly at him and finally lowering his hand, “Very nice. Perfect for Belleteyn.”

“Hmm.” Geralt glanced at the bouquet of daffodils left on the bar. “Just one thing…”

He swiftly grabbed another of the vibrant flowers and, without pause, slid it behind Jaskier’s ear. He didn’t linger like the bard had done, but Jaskier’s face lit up, the tips of his ears going pink. He was about to say something, when the barman interrupted him.

“Your mead, Sirs. And if I might say; you two make a lovely couple.”

Geralt froze. “We’re not a couple.”

The barman glanced between them, taking in the flowers.

“Right you are, then, sir.” There was something in his tone like doubt, betrayed in the way he raised a single eyebrow, in the way his lip quirked. “A blessed Belleteyn to you both, in any case. May you have an… eventful evening.”


	5. After the Mountain - MOVED

Greetings! I am currently in the process of moving these one-shots to their own separate fics. However, I don't want to get rid of the comments I've been left over the past few months, so I'm leaving the empty chapters so I can preserve them for times when I'm feeling a little less confident in my writing.

[**This chapter can now be found here!**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779972)


	6. Dandelions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small thoughts on the nature of dandelions. Not really a fic, not really... anything. A little bit sad.

**The thing about dandelions is -**

they often go where you don’t expect them. They sprout where they’re neither needed nor wanted. Leave the patch of dirt where you plan to plant your lilac shrubs for too long and you’ll soon find the ground overrun with the green and yellow plants, stubbornly refusing to grow elsewhere – or to stop growing in your garden at all.

**The thing about dandelions is -**

they’re not picky. They’re unlike roses or lilies or orchids with their fussy needs, growing regardless of fickle things like soil quality and rainfall. Dandelions will force their little yellow heads through stone, will grow halfway up a building, in the support beams of a bridge. Dandelions are found wherever dirt is – no matter how much the other flowers refuse to bloom there.

**The thing about dandelions is -**

they’re beautiful, in their own way. If you’ve learnt to appreciate the under-appreciated, the dandelion’s cheery yellow head is a little burst of sunlight on a cloudy day. After a while, you might even find yourself growing fond of them - despite your better judgement.

**The thing about dandelions is -**

they’re useful. They say a weed is only a flower that’s growing in the wrong place, and this is most true of the dandelion. It can be eaten or brewed into tea. It has medicinal properties favoured by healers and mages alike. Dandelions are useful to have in the garden, once you know what they do. 

They say dandelions grant wishes.

But only once.

**The thing about dandelions is -**

They’re fragile. When they’re all vibrant green leaves and shaggy yellow petals they seem near-indestructible, but soon that passes, those tiny petals replaced with downy fluff and then-

\- and then -

They’re gone.

Just like that.

**The thing about dandelions is -**

_they’re gone_


	7. Hangovers - MOVED

Greetings! I am currently in the process of moving these one-shots to their own separate fics. However, I don't want to get rid of the comments I've been left over the past few months, so I'm leaving the empty chapters so I can preserve them for times when I'm feeling a little less confident in my writing.

**[This chapter can now be found here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823178) **


	8. The Cure for Bad Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier suffers from bad dreams, and Geralt comes to the rescue. Tooth-rotting fluff, nightmares, (slight) misunderstandings and the ordeal of waking up cuddling each other. Rated T for swears.

It’s late - too late, truly, for Geralt to still be awake. He lies on the straw-stuffed mattress, staring at the beams above the bed. No matter how much he tries, no matter much how he calms his breathing or his heartbeat, sleep continues to evade him.

Beside him, Jaskier wriggles. He’s always been a volatile sleeper - squirmy and jumpy, especially just before he falls asleep. Tonight, the problem is only exacerbated, the bard tossing and turning, hands gripping at the thin blanket. 

It’s not, Geralt thinks, necessarily _Jaskier’s_ fault that he’s still awake - he’s had more unpleasant bedfellows, certainly, and he’s grown used to Jaskier’s squirming - but it certainly doesn’t help when his mind refuses to rest.

He sighs to himself, trying to force his eyes to shut, considering slipping into a deeper meditative state, when Jaskier suddenly cries out. It’s just noise - just a yell at first, then little sobs climbing over each other - until finally, a word, clear as anything. 

_“Geralt!”_

Geralt freezes. Jaskier twitches, and shouts again - “No - I - Geralt!”

He’s asleep. He’s fast asleep, eyes tightly shut. He thrashes in the bed, his legs tangling in the sheet. 

A nightmare. It’s like ice in Geralt’s stomach, like all his _own_ bad dreams have come to fruition at once. Jaskier’s face is contorted in fear, and sad, scared little noises keep escaping his lips - noises that come curled around Geralt’s name. Whatever’s haunting his dreams, it’s clearly terrifying. It’s terrifying - and it’s…

Well. It’s _him_ , clearly. No one would say his name like that unless they were scared. Geralt isn’t sure what to do. He wants to wake him, to pull him from whatever horror is grabbing at him, but would that be even worse? To wake from a nightmare only to be confronted with the face of your fear?

Jaskier whimpers again and Geralt can’t bear it. He reaches out a gentle hand and places it on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. Jaskier jumps - then twists, turning towards Geralt.

“No - I - I can’t - _Geralt!_ Let him go!”

Geralt blinks, suddenly unsure. He moves his hand, and Jaskier’s eyes abruptly snap open, staring at nothing.

“…Jaskier?” Geralt can hear his heartbeat, rapid through fear but not quite rapid enough to be awake. Jaskier looks right through him.

“Geralt…” he whispers, desperation in his voice.

Geralt winces. “I’m here.”

Jaskier looks around, blankly. “They took him. They got him, I…” he raises his hands, stares at them, “there was _blood_ … so much blood, I… Geralt, I need to find _Geralt_ …”

And then he realises. Jaskier isn’t scared of him. He’s scared _for_ him. Scared he’s lost him. The bard’s eyes slide shut once more, but he’s still shaking - still gasping for air.

Geralt edges closer till their bodies are touching and, as gently as he can, slides an arm beneath Jaskier’s body, tugging him closer, looking for a way to stop him from panicking. Jaskier stiffens at first, then relaxes, curling into Geralt’s side, sliding an arm across his chest.

The shaking stops. His heartbeat slows, and soon he’s sleeping normally, his chest rising and falling in untroubled sleep. 

Right. _Right_. Geralt pauses. He hadn’t really thought this through. Jaskier’s head is buried into his shoulder, one arm tucked beneath his body, his free hand resting on Geralt’s collarbone. He should have woken him up, or reassured him some other way, not pulled him in like Jaskier is - 

Like Jaskier’s _his_.

Guiltily, he rather likes it. Jaskier is warm against his side, and the little puffs of breath on Geralt’s bare skin is reassuring, comforting. He fits well in this gap Geralt has created for him, slots next to him like he could have been designed for it. He’s not that much shorter than himself, yet that makes little difference.

Jaskier makes a soft, sleepy sound against his chest and Geralt’s heart, usually so calm, thumps a little harder in his chest. 

Like this, it’s easy to slip into sleep. It’s easy to let the guilt go, to close his eyes, to deal with it in the morning. He always wakes first, anyway - he’ll just extract himself when he wakes and pretend that nothing ever happened.

Finally, gratefully, he falls asleep.

~

Jaskier wakes slowly, a bright shaft of light sliding from the window directly across his face. For once, he’s comfortable and content - he’s no desire to open his eyes and face the day just yet.

He is very comfortable. Oddly so. The inn they’re staying in is cheap and small and the simple pallet bed has no more than a scratchy straw mattress, yet right now - right now it’s like he’s _floating_. Like the bed beneath him is moving, rising and falling with his breathing.

He inhales through his nose, preparing to truly wake, and is struck with the scent of heat and sweat and oil. And then he realises why he’s so comfortable - why he’s so warm - why there’s a pressure at his back. He realises what he’s lying curled around. _Who_ he’s lying curled around. 

_Shit shit shit shit_. Oh, Melitele’s tits, he’s going to be in trouble. He’s going to get a telling off about boundaries - or, far more likely - a very stern look.

He risks opening his eyes and glances up at Geralt’s face. The witcher’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing slowly, heavily. He appears to still be asleep.

And… _well_.

If he’s still asleep, after all, what he doesn’t know won’t necessarily hurt him. 

Jaskier shuts his eyes quickly, keen not to get caught. He’s often wondered what it would be like to sleep like this, to nuzzle into Geralt’s skin and breath him in, to feel his arms wrapped around him. It really is rather nice. He tries to push back the lingering anxiety of being caught - of being scolded - to the back of his head, instead focusing on the way Geralt’s chest rises and falls as he breathes. 

He knows, of course, that this won’t last. That sooner or later they’ll need to rise and get on with the day - traipsing onward to the next village, the next contract. The next kill.

But for now… 

For now, it’s bliss.

~

Geralt only wakes with a start when there’s danger afoot. This morning, cocooned in comfort and with an unusually clear head, he wakes gradually. Light spills from the dirty window across his chest, warming him, then up as the sun rises and with the rising sun, across his face and onto his eyelids till he can fight wakefulness no more.

He keeps his eyes shut, basking in the stillness of the morning and the warmth of the sunlight. Moments like these are rare when he can simply _exist_ , not as a witcher or a monster but as a _man_ , enjoying the pleasure of a good night’s rest.

He’s _very_ warm. Warm, and comfortable, and his arm is numb and his fingers tingling and- 

_Oh. Of course._

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that Jaskier is still huddled into his side, his arm thrown across his chest, his hand gripping into his shoulder. He can feel him lying there - Geralt’s heightened senses exploding with the sensation of Jaskier pressed against him. He smells of sweat, and sleep, and lavender. He had expected Jaskier to move in the night, to wriggle like he always does, and yet - here he is.

It does mean that extracting himself from the situation may be rather more awkward - more risky than if Jaskier had moved away himself - but he can’t deny the little leap in his stomach he feels knowing that he spent the whole night cuddled up to him. He should move him, as he had planned the night before, roll him over and away - but…

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s heart beating in his chest, can hear it, faintly - a rhythmic backdrop to the morning, no more invasive than the sound of the birds singing just outside the window. He listens to it, concentrating, pleased that the bard still appears to be asleep. He won’t have to move just yet.

Although - 

Geralt concentrates, focusing on the noise of Jaskier’s heart, trying to block the noises coming from outside and downstairs. The beating is rhythmic, yes, but fast - far too fast for a sleeping human. His breathing, too, is almost stilted - too regular and controlled for genuine sleep.

Which means - he realises with a shock - that Jaskier is merely _pretending_ to be asleep.

….Just like he is.

Geralt lies, eyes closed, in stunned silence, trying to gather his thoughts. He’s not sure when Jaskier awoke, but judging by his heartbeat it wasn’t recently. He’s been lying awake for some time. But… _why?_ Why would he fake sleep, knowing the position he’s in, knowing how closely their bodies are spooned together, aware of the soft, sticky touch of skin-on-skin? 

He can’t bear it. He opens his eyes.

“Jaskier.”

He’s met with silence - but he can hear Jaskier’s heart-rate suddenly spike. 

“Jaskier,” he repeats, “I can hear your heart. I _know_ you’re awake.”

There’s a long, heavy silence. 

And then Jaskier opens his eyes, too.

“Well I am _now_.”

“You were pretending to be asleep.”

Jaskier shifts, lifting himself up on one arm to get a better look at Geralt, removing the arm that was so casually flung across Geralt’s chest. His face is a picture of outrage. 

“That is… I mean, _honestly_ … why would I-” And then he falters into silence, mouth hanging open. Geralt waits, expectantly. “You… you cheeky _fucking_ witcher!”

“What?”

“The only way you could tell that _I_ was pretending to be asleep is if _you_ were pretending to be asleep too!”

“I…”

“You were! You had your eyes shut and everything!”

“How do you know I had my eyes shut?”

Jaskier blushes, furiously.

“Anyway,” says Geralt quickly, before Jaskier can say anything else, “I wasn’t pretending to be asleep.”

“You were. I know you were, because I _checked_.”

“You checked?”

“ _You_ were pretending to be asleep!” Jaskier won’t let the crux of the matter drop.

“So were you!”

Jaskier stutters into silence. His hair stands in a messy cloud around his head, his face flushed, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He huffs through his nose.

“You had a nightmare,” Geralt says, finally.

Jaskier’s brows furrow in thought - and then Geralt can see the memory pass across his face. He pales.

“Oh.” 

“You were…” Geralt looks away, looks back up at the ceiling, “…talking in your sleep.”

 _“Oh.”_ Jaskier considers this.. “Did I say anything… incriminating?”

He looks worried, suddenly, his face a picture of anxiety. Now he’s made himself aware of it, Geralt can’t unhear his frantic heartbeat.

“No more incriminating than waking up in my arms,” he says, quietly.

There’s a soft silence. Jaskier chews nervously on the inside of his lip, then appears to reach a decision. He settles back down, resting his head against Geralt’s chest. 

“…Thank you,” he mutters.

“It sounded… bad.” Geralt’s aware that this doesn’t truly describe whatever it was that was disturbing Jaskier’s sleep, but it’s the best he can manage. 

“…It was.”

Slowly, cautiously, Jaskier slides his arm back out, crossing the wide expanse of Geralt’s chest. Instinctively, Geralt pulls him closer. Jaskier’s breath hitches, quietly.

Geralt swallows. “You know,” he says, “we don’t have to set out for another hour or so.”

“No?”

“No. The next village is only a few miles away, and from what I’ve gathered they’re suffering from a nightwraith. It won’t be out till dark anyway.” 

“Right.”

Geralt feels Jaskier shift against him, getting comfortable.

“Well, then,” he says, quietly. “…You know, it really _was_ a horrible dream. I slept _awfully_. Did, ah… did _you_ …”

“Terribly.”

“Right.” He repeats, and nods. “An extra hour - _or so_ \- might do us both some good, then. Especially if you’ve got some evil spectre to deal with later. You’ll need all your energy, one would suppose.”

Truthfully, Jaskier is wrong - a single nightwraith is easy enough to take down with the liberal application of the right oils and a well-placed Yrden trap. But… he doesn’t need to know that.

“Hmm,” Geralt responds. 

Jaskier seems to take that as a ‘yes’. He falls silent, and Geralt, still hyper-sensitive, can feel the soft brush of his eyelashes against his skin as he closes his eyes. 

Geralt’s eyes slide shut, uncaring for the dazzling sunlight across his face or the growing noises of people getting ready for the day in the inn below. He can feel Jaskier’s relaxing heartbeat where his fingertips press into his arm, mingling with his own, slow pulse. It’s not a duet - his heart is too slow for that - but a melody. 

The thoughts of travelling, and coin, and monsters slip away. For now, all he needs are good dreams.


	9. Wildly Gesticulating - MOVED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier accidentally slaps Geralt during a rant (and Geralt is charmed by Jaskier's reaction to back-handing him). Very soft, very fluffy, T for swears.

Greetings! I am currently in the process of moving these one-shots to their own separate fics. However, I don't want to get rid of the comments I've been left over the past few months, so I'm leaving the empty chapters so I can preserve them for times when I'm feeling a little less confident in my writing.

This can be found here: [**Backhander**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864341/)

**Author's Note:**

> For more of my nonsense in real-time, come and say hi to me on my Tumblr: [A-Kind-Of-Merry-War](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) 💖


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